


What I Need

by josiegrae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Confusion, Developing Relationship, F/F, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Self-Discovery, Sexual Confusion, University, forced to share a room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiegrae/pseuds/josiegrae
Summary: Except, Pansy isn't sure she wants Lavender.Because Pansy isn't gay.She isn't."Are you–you coming out to me, Brown? Because I think you're heavily mistaking this sort of situation. We aren't friends, and this isn't a safe space. And I am very mad at you."Lavender smiles, one Pansy should assume is innocent, but she has spent enough time with Lavender to know this isn't a sweet smile—it is a patronising, insulting, and meant to cut Pansy down from her high-horse.





	What I Need

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2, hosted by The Fairest of the Rare Facebook Group. Much love to my Beta and best friend, VioletBehaviour.  
> My chosen song prompt was- [What I Need], [Hayley Kiyoko ft Kehlani].

 

* * *

Pansy Parkinson first meets Lavender Brown at secondary school, and she has been as irritating since then.

Now, with both of them having applied to the same university, Pansy watches her bounce up and down on her heels, Lavender's rich sepia skin catching the sun-rays coming through the stain-glass window, causing the gold undertones to glow, making her the star of the growing crowd.

She tries _not_ to roll her eyes, but with each bounce, each excitable giggle, Pansy can't help but stare in awe and half-heartedly roll her eyes. Lavender Brown is the same attention-seeking cow she has been since school—only now her curves are more prominent, and her makeup is toned down. And, most importantly, Lavender doesn't seem fazed at all by anyone's questionable stares—something she was in their final year. Lavender returned to school with silver scars over her chest, neck and cheeks in the last few months of school and the confidence had all but gone, but now she was shining brighter than ever. Pansy wishes she had half as much confidence as Lavender, not that she'll admit it.

Before Pansy can look away, Lavender's almond eyes meet Pansy's, and the bouncing stops, and the loose black and caramel curls halt as they fall around her face, and the braid over her crown is finally seen. For a second, Pansy is completely in enthralled, but then she forces herself to think something bitter, practically seething anger on purpose rather than question her _real_ feelings.

She isn't sure why she's still so angry that Lavender— _an insanely talented woman_ —had beaten her to the lead role in the end of year school play. Or why it bothered her so much that Lavender had also gotten into this university, and Pansy wasn't sure why it made her so impossibly annoyed that Lavender _probably_ got better scores than her. She already knew Lavender was smart, they had shared all of the same classes when they were at school.

She suspects her anger stems from confusion, and the confusion is caused by Lavender appearing in several naughty dreams Pansy had at school. At first, she considered that Lavender appears because she sits next to her in English lit, then she realises that it's because she spends a lot of time looking at Lavender, and how her shirt is never buttoned all the way up. And that Lavender, true to her name, always wears underwear that is some variation of purple. Pansy has never looked at a colour and wanted to have sex.

But she does with the colour purple.

"Parkinson!" She exclaims, and the look of excitement and joy blossoms over her face.

Pansy wants to run.

She wants to hide.

Her past has followed her here, to her fresh start.

She doesn't want old school students or former enemies, nor does she desire friends or even confusing-love-interests in her new life. Pansy wants to start _again._

And she doesn't want _to be friends_ with Lavender Brown. She doesn't even want to be close to Lavender _freaking_ Brown. Pansy wants to start again, a fresh start, with no one knowing what her family has done or who she is. Secretly, Pansy would rather be anyone but Pansy Parkinson. Something like Pansy Park or Pansy Poe. Anything _but_ a Parkinson.

But everyone knows now.

Lavender has already announced it.

They know her family is rich scum, and by extension, she is. Pansy already wants the ground to swallow her up, wrapping her arms around the YSL jumper that has become far too big on her.

She tries _not_ to pull back as Lavender's arms wrap around her, her face unable to stop itself from scrunching as Pansy gets a face full of rather—almost surprisingly soft—curls. She smells coconuts and vanilla, and Pansy can't help but feel comforted by it, and she hates that she feels that way.

She hates she feels anything at all.

"Brown. Interesting to see you here."

Pansy is hyper-aware the room is watching the two of them, and so Pansy spreads a smile on her face, not wishing for the first hour of her being here to paint a bad impression. She already has her father's failings in the press, she already has the stereotype that _all Parkinson's_ were insanely rich and abhorrently racist. Pansy doesn't want to fuel the fire. She doesn't need any more attention.

"Guess who is sharing a room? Us! Can you believe it?"

Her heart sinks, and Pansy feels her stomach twist into a knot—especially when she is meant to have her own room. Having explicitly asked not to share.

She could hear her mother's voice even now, " _I told you to inquire about your living arrangements. I told you that you would end up with some poor excuse for a roommate who will want to use your cashmere cardigans and borrow your red-bottom loafers."_ Pansy hates her mother being right, she hates many things, but she knows her mother is somewhere at the top.

Her mother is a cold-hearted woman, someone who finds any excuse to make Pansy feel like a disappointment, and even now, with her miles away, Pansy still has the same feeling she does when she lives at home with _her_.

She tries to mirror Lavender's giddiness, because the room is still watching and she sees people getting their phones out.

_Parkinson daughter snaps on first day._

_Shameful Parkinson daughter rejects POC roommate._

Pansy wouldn't have a name nor a voice, she wouldn't be given the chance to explain. She would be tainted with the same brush. Even if sharing a room had nothing to do with someone's skin colour but _everything_ to do with the fact Pansy was afraid of what someone would do to her while she's sleeping.

If there's one thing Pansy has learnt to do, it's fake it till you make it.

"Wow, that's… _amazing_ , Brown."

Lavender grins, clapping her hands together lightly. "I'm so _excited!_ Least we know one another. I hate making new friends."

Pansy somehow doesn't believe that for a second, she suspects Lavender already has a _Snapchat_ app full of new friends.

"Me too," Pansy says with more truth than Lavender will realise. Hating how her eyes move to Lavender's lips, noticing the shade of purple that covers them.

* * *

It doesn't matter that Pansy has laid out rules, she somehow _always_ finds Lavender breaking them by their second month living together.

 _Rule number one_ : clothes must be worn at all times—a rule Lavender breaks almost daily. It frustrates her, gets her mind running a mile a minute as she tries to bottle her anger.

Pansy isn't _against_ being nude, she actually finds it rather freeing—especially when most times she doesn't wear underwear under her baggy t-shirt dresses or pj's. But Lavender not wearing a t-shirt, walking around their _shared_ room in just a lace bra and tiny shorts—that never seems to cover what God blessed her with—is not allowed.

It's distracting.

It's confusing.

And an uncertain Pansy, who finds her eyes wandering over Lavender's hips or the curve of her breast, isn't a Pansy she's used to. Or anyone.

Because Pansy _cannot be gay._

She _isn't_ gay.

And her stares are because there is so much of Lavender's skin on show. That's all. It has to be.

Pansy realises—annoyingly so—she has never really looked at a woman like she wants to look at Lavender, and she isn't sure why. Lavender is annoying; Lavender has _always_ been annoying.

But she cannot break her eyes from her, even when she's in sweats.

But Pansy isn't gay. She's sure of it.

 _Rule number two_ : a sock on the door if you're _fucking_.

Technically, Lavender _hasn't_ broken this rule, but she has been close. The sheet from her bed over her knees, her back arched as Lavender moans so sweetly from her own touch, that she doesn't hear Pansy enter—but she feels the embarrassment. Her almond eyes meeting Pansy's as she comes down from her _almost_ high, her lashes still fluttering.

Pansy, _again,_ isn't a prude. She has a vibrator, a good one, one that makes her see stars as good as any man could, but she doesn't chance Lavender walking in on that. She is respectful—she's been raised better than that.

And even if Pansy's blood is pounding in her ear, her brain somehow still jumps to the conclusion that she'd like to make Lavender make that noise.

When Pansy's voice reaches a new pitch of anger as she slams the door, and she hurries into a furious storm of, " _how dare you",_ and " _why would you"._ But Lavender doesn't seem fazed; her hands moving under the sheets as she dresses herself, before throwing back the sheets, her natural curls falling down her back, more volumized without her usual braids.

"I'm queer, Parkinson," Lavender exclaims as she buttons her jean shorts, "and unless you fail to notice, I'm not white, so I don't get _hand-picked_ all that often for _get laid weekly."_

Pansy tries to not drop her jaw, especially as the pun washes over her. But most of all, Pansy tries to not let her eyes wander over Lavender's bralette, over the soft cotton that barely contains the breasts in front of her. Because if Lavender is gay, then it means she could be interested in Pansy. She could want her like Pansy wants _her_.

Except, Pansy isn't sure she wants Lavender.

Because Pansy isn't gay.

She isn't.

"Are you– _you_ coming out to me, Brown? Because I think you're heavily mistaking this sort of situation. We aren't friends, and this _isn't_ a safe space. And I am _very_ mad at you."

Lavender smiles, one Pansy _should_ assume is innocent, but she has spent enough time with Lavender to know this isn't a sweet smile—it is a patronising, insulting, and meant to cut Pansy down from her high-horse. It is one that Pansy receives often from other students, those she doesn't know the name of, and by lecturers who don't think she notices. It hurts more coming from Lavender.

It stings, and Pansy is sure it will leave marks.

Brushing her hair from her shoulder, Lavender spreads her smile into a smirk. "No, _we aren't._ I wouldn't _choose_ to be best friends with someone as cut-throat as you, Parkinson. Even if your bob does match the evil queen vibe you're giving off and accentuates your flawless jawline, we are _just_ roommates. I've been out since school, _you_ just fail to notice anything about anyone unless it benefits _you_."

Lavender spins on the spot, her curls swinging around her hair as she seats herself on the edge of her own bed. Her fingers move down her knees to pull her socks up, the white of the fabric standing out against her skin.

"And, yes, _I am_ being a bitch, but you just interrupted an orgasm that was going to rock my world for half a day, so, I'm allowed to be a bitch, especially when you're one 24/7, 3-6- _fucking_ -5."

Pansy opens her mouth, wanting to mutter ' _that simply isn't true',_ but she knows it is, and Lavender isn't the first girl or person to say it to her.

And the stinging once again commences, and Pansy wants to cry but she doesn't, because she cannot cry in from of Lavender.

She cannot seem weak, because if people realise she's not as strong they'll heighten their abuse, and Pansy knows there won't be much left of her.

Not that there is a lot anyways.

* * *

The air is thick with tension, but Pansy pretends she is paying it no mind, even if she is. Lavender's perfume, the one hanging in the air far longer than it should, and dances over every item of fabric in their room, was beginning to bring on a migraine. Although, Pansy isn't sure it _is_ the perfume, because she does consider that it's because of the person—or, even worse, her own thoughts could be the cause.

She's dreamt about Lavender touching herself, and Pansy watches in the dream. She tries to wake herself up, but she never does, and Pansy suspects she doesn't really want to wake up at all.

Pansy suspects she wants to make her dream a reality, even if she's into men and not into Lavender _bloody_ Brown.

"You stare at me."

Four words. That's all they were, and yet they make everything inside Pansy freeze.

The pen in her hand doesn't touch the paper; the paper in front of her doesn't have words appearing. Pansy is stuck, momentarily embedded in space and time and existence. She feels entirely trapped, moulded to the chair and unable to hide in the bathroom or duck under the sheets because she is stupidly sat at her desk—the one she had _needed_ desperately in their room, the one Pansy had _needed_ to be so large because it forces their beds further apart and disposes of a lot of free room. Pansy is held perfectly in place by Lavender's soft brown eyes, ones full of mystery and illusion.

"I've noticed it a bit," Lavender continues, dipping her head, pretending to read her book. "I know you know why I have these scars, so if they _disgust_ you so much, change rooms."

 _Disgust._ The word sounds horrid, especially coming from someone so innocent as Lavender Brown.

Lavender doesn't look up—she doesn't dare—and Pansy feels it. She knows her expression is hard-faced and she struggles with sharing emotions, but the word rolling about her head makes her feel guilty. _D-i-s-g-u-s-t._

It's not even close to how Pansy feels when she looks at Lavender's scars.

If Pansy is truthful with herself—and then Lavender—she knows _nothing_ about Lavender Brown disgusts her—which kind of disgusts her for an entirely different reason altogether. And worst of all, Pansy is sure she has feelings for Lavender, or at least a crush, and that makes her feel sick. Because Pansy likes men, she has too. She's a Parkinson, and there are rules and expectations. She can't be gay or even bisexual. Pansy has to be straight because going to university was all a ploy to avoid the press, and when she finishes, she'll have to marry someone her father chooses.

Even if her father is in prison.

And even if Pansy doesn't want to, she'll have to.

She could say this, she is sure of all people Lavender Brown—who cried through an entire day of classes over her rabbit—would understand. Lavender is different.

Even when Lavender has _always_ been annoying, loud and overconfident, she's always been _nice._ Something Pansy isn't, and maybe that's because Lavender doesn't have a family to please and she doesn't have expectations piled onto her shoulders. Lavender _can just be_ Lavender.

She can be into horoscopes and the latest fashion trends, specifically purple shades, which Pansy thinks is an abhorrent colour, but she knows that black doesn't suit Lavender, not like it suits Pansy. And, Pansy rather likes purple on Lavender, it makes her skin richer and her eyes pop, and it coats her lips perfectly, and Pansy also knows she shouldn't think any of this.

But she does, and it makes Pansy feel broken. Because she is either broken, or will be, because she can't have Lavender.

Lavender, whose nails are always painted, and allowed to be—something Pansy's never were—and with whatever colour she chooses, because Lavender's mother wouldn't tell her it doesn't befit her and Lavender's mum has always supports Lavender. Her family comes to the school plays, the graduations, and they clap the loudest even when Lavender hasn't been the lead and Pansy has been. Lavender can be queer and not afraid to say it…

"It's _not_ what I'm staring at."

Lavender looks up, her book shifting on her knees. " _Oh_?"

Pansy nods, biting the inside of her cheek. She is aware of how intensely Lavender is staring at her, and how small the room is, and how close they actually are to one another. Their skin is so close to touching, they could be bare within seconds, and Pansy would know if Lavender's lips actually taste like cocoa butter or if the smell is the moisturizer she uses. Pansy would be able to find out.

She would finally know.

She would learn if she is gay. Or bisexual or whatever the _fuck_ she is.

Pansy would learn who Pansy is, for the first time in her life.

Licking her lips, allowing the curiosity to build in her. The one she has hidden so well before now. "Maybe, just maybe, _Brown_ , I'm staring at you."

Closing her book, Lavender places it gently on her bedside table, twisting around, causing her top to rise up, exposing her hip.

Lavender doesn't notice, she doesn't feel the chill against her skin from the room. Pansy notices, _christ_ Pansy notices.

"Oh?" Lavender merely repeats. "Is that so."

Pansy takes a deep breath. "And maybe, just maybe—" she drops the pen to the open notepad with a thud, the paper crinkling against her skin as she slides around on the chair as Pansy stands. "I like to stare at you without so many things between us."

She has no idea where this confidence came from. She fakes it so often with others, when she needs a quick screw to forget the pain that builds in her chest or finds herself so low she _needs_ someone to tell her she's beautiful, even for a few seconds. But right now, Pansy is internally shaking, no confidence is being faked. This was all her, and every real thing she should have felt with men is being felt with Lavender.

_A woman._

"And maybe," Pansy says as she steps closer to Lavender's bed, staring at the plump lips that beg to be kissed, and the honey brown eyes that beg to sparkle, "I really, _really_ , want to—"

Someone thumps loudly on their door, making both of the women jump, and Pansy jumps back from the bed, stumbling over her bag and landing awkwardly in a heap. " _Fire. There is a bloody freaking fire!"_

Lavender scrambles from her bed, grasping a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, and Pansy awkwardly stands up with her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Pansy grabs her bag, not knowing what _the fuck_ to do with herself as Lavender opens the door, holding it, waiting _for her._

" _C'mon,_ I don't fancy becoming a s'more today, do you?"

Pansy feels another wave of confusion at the way her heart skips a beat at Lavender's smile, another thing to add to the growing list of unsurprising unsureness.

* * *

Pansy finds herself avoiding Lavender from the moment they were let back into their room. Her confession hanging in the air and neither of them wish to acknowledge it, and it makes Pansy feel a little sick.

They've lived together for three months. And in those three months, Pansy has become familiar with sharing a room with Lavender. Yes, maybe the transition is made easier by the fact she likes Lavender, and yes maybe Pansy has tried a little harder, but she's used to it.

Pansy can't have someone else, and she can't have her own room—she asked the second day of university life. She's somewhat glad she wasn't granted such a thing.

Pansy wraps herself in her blanket, the black cashmere one Lavender always teases her about, she calls it a cloak—something the wicked witch would have. But Pansy is cold now, even if outside, in the actual cold, with their bodies closer together, with Lavender's arms woven—annoyingly—around Pansy's where she found herself half-curling into her, she wasn't cold at all. Now _without_ Lavender, Pansy is freezing to the bone.

She misses her skin. She misses her warmth and her scent. And she worries that Pansy will have to miss all of her even more because everything is fucked up, and Pansy can't fix it.

Because she isn't gay and she shouldn't have said anything earlier.

Pansy watches Lavender go into the bathroom, closing the door, and she doesn't say anything.

Because Pansy isn't _gay._

She isn't.

And yet, her eyes _always_ wander to Lavender's hips, and the under-curve of her bum when she wears gym shorts. She always brings Lavender pizza and Pansy enjoys making cups of tea for her, even if Pansy hates anything that isn't coffee. And Pansy sits in the common area with Lavender, even if she hates the sofas because they're cheap and the people who are all weird. Pansy likes being around Lavender.

Even if Pansy isn't into Lavender, because Lavender is a woman, and Pansy doesn't like women.

She's _sure_ of it.

Pansy finds herself taking several gasps of air as she lays her head on her pillow. Her heart is racing, a million thoughts rushing uncontrollably through her mind—and most of them involve Lavender. Bending her head, her chin pressing into her chest, Pansy tries _desperately_ to level herself, to bottle up her emotions, to cap everything she is feeling.

A girl—one she _was definitely_ not interested in—is not going to take this opportunity from her.

She pulls out her _emergency_ vodka, the one she stashes among her knickers and socks, the one of many.

She learnt the trick from a _very_ depressed Draco—her friend, _possibly_ her only friend, who moved to America needing to start again. His family were messed up too, they were involved in the same crazed murderer plots—the 21st Century Hitler, the man that Pansy's parents and so many other's parents were in cohorts with. She hasn't spoken to him, or anyone from her family's circle and she hasn't heard from them. Pansy hates that her past is muddied with racism and fascism.

So Pansy quietly drinks under the sheets. She feels her muscles relax and her brain begin to silence as Lavender turns out the lights, basking them in the darkness of their room. Neither of them make a noise, both paralysed by emotions—or Pansy is anyway—and neither of them say goodnight, for the first time since they shared a room. Pansy begins the second bottle, placed in her handbag, as she tried to blink away tears.

Parkinson's, Malfoy's and Greengrass' do not cry. Pansy remembers as much from when they were home-schooled before beginning year one. They sat in Draco's library, Daphne on her left and Draco on her right as a _professor_ called Snape told them the rules of their society. One of them being they do not cry, even when it hurts.

It hurts now.

Everything hurts.

Pansy is confused, and she's hurt because she wants a goodnight from Lavender—even if before university she never had one, now she _needs_ one. And it's silly to cry about, but Pansy finds she does anyway, with her lips stained with vodka and her throat burning.

She's not sure how she rises from the bed the next morning before Lavender wakes. She forces on a pair of sunglasses and a hoodie—one she wouldn't usually be seen dead in—and Pansy hides out in the library, only noticing one other person at that hour, and she is ashamed as to who it is.

Pansy hopes her sunglasses-disguise would offer her some cover as she tries to slip quietly into a table, but as things always turn out in Pansy's life, it fails.

"Good morning, Pansy! I'm surprised to see—"

"Not now, Granger. Some of us have lives outside of books, and some of us are hungover because we don't study until our eyes turn square," Pansy lies, adding a gruffness to her voice to sell the story. She isn't hungover, she hasn't been able to have a hangover in years.

It feels good to pretend.

Makes her feel _normal. It_ makes her feel like she isn't as fucked up as she knows she is.

Pansy knows she drinks too much, she has been drinking since secondary school, hoping to block out the end of year where her father is arrested and other things she still can't think about.

She drinks to forget about drinking and the mistakes alcohol causes, and Pansy drinks to forget the photo of her kissing Daphne, an affectionate and already confusing moment worsened by social media and teenagers and whispers. She's already a disappointment to her mother because she won't support her racist dad, and she won't testify that he's a good guy. Because her dad isn't. He's not. But she's even more of a disappointment for kissing Daphne, and vodka helps with that pain. And tequila, whisky, and various other things she finds in her father's bar.

Granger doesn't go away. Pansy wonders if a God existed, and why _He_ would be so cruel.

Not that she believes.

She doesn't believe in anything. She can't. She won't. Because a God shouldn't let her father cheat on her mother which makes her cold, and her father wouldn't try and sell Pansy to one of his business friends for a better deal. A God wouldn't let that happen if He existed.

The bushy-haired bookworm tilts her head, and Pansy finds herself nailed to the floor, unable to get her thighs to pick up her feet and move from the obnoxious _know-it-all_ stare. She hates how her eyes settle on some of Granger's softer features, and Pansy has to admit that while ordinary and rather bland, Hermione Granger isn't terrible to look at.

Pansy realises she must still be drunk, she has to be.

Lavender is one thing, but thinking of Granger is something entirely wrong and odd.

"You drink with Brown last night?" Hermione asks, and Pansy wants to believe it's innocent, but the glint in her eyes tells her enough. "I saw you two, outside your building—"

"You saw _nothing,_ Granger."

This time, Pansy's feet move with ease, her heels meeting the floor with the grace of an ice-skater on ice. Her shoulders are tense, her spine is straight, and until she is _completely_ from view, Pansy doesn't let the weight slip from her—she doesn't break.

_I'm not gay._

_But I think I am._

Pansy slides sideways into an available chair, her elbows meeting the desk with a thud as her nails claw at her fringe. She shakes her head against her palms, a burning sensation lumping in her throat because a woman, who is soft and beautiful, with blonde hair like the sun—almost like Daphne's—is all her thoughts can think of.

Her sleeping face.

Her peach cheeks.

The way she applies her eyelashes with precision, her tongue poking out just a bit between her glossy lips.

_I'm not gay. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not._

One of Pansy's elbows slides down until it was flat, her head meeting her skin as the other remains bent on the wood, her fingers teasing gently at her strands. It soothes her, not that she will admit that to anyone. Her nanny had stroked her hair, more so when tears fell from her eyes when she was banished from dinners for asking too many questions.

Pansy has always been inquisitive, and maybe that is all this was. A curiosity, a burning question that has no straightforward answer.

_I'm not gay._

Her eyes drift to the open doorway, her eyes glancing down to the couple standing in the door talking. The muscular tanned male she has seen running in the morning and the red-haired female with freckles all over her skin. She studies both, admiring them, committing their shapes, and she finds her thoughts drifting to their lips, to their hands.

But in the back of her mind, she remembers how she kissed her friend, her best friend, and broke her Daphne's life because of it. She remembers the whispers, the horrid messages written over the bathroom walls about her, and Pansy can take it because she's strong and not willing to break. She's not _allowed_ to break, it's the second rule of their rich fucking society and Pansy knows this more than anything. It hurts that she has no one, and she can't do that to Lavender.

Because it's bad enough that Pansy lives with it every day, being rejected by all.

She isn't sure that Lavender would be able to deal with it.

Every _single_ day.

For the rest of their days, if they were together.

* * *

Pansy hasn't needed any further emotions adding to the confusing pot she is currently cooking, but then came jealousy. It erupts out of nowhere, growing and filling every available space until Pansy practically chokes on it. It would have only been better if she expects it, which she has not. She has entered the shared space, the lights low and students in the dark corners, and Pansy normally pays no notice, but then her eyes meet Lavender on the sofa, her hand teasing another girls cheek, and then hair, then shoulder.

Her palms instantly became sweaty, and her grip on her bag becomes tighter and tighter, until she is sure it will snap.

Fury ran through her like a wild, untamed animal, and it takes everything within her not to go over and slap Lavender's hand from the girls' face. She has no right, no _reason_ , but yet, her jaw is gritted to the point of cracking and tears threaten to burst from her eyes.

_I'm not gay. I'm not gay._

It chants through her mind, unsure if it is something she is telling herself or if she is hoping the lie will stick. Her fingers begin to crawl up her forearms, her eyes unwilling to break from the two of them moving closer on the sofa. It is only when Pansy feels the sharp pain of her nails breaking skin, and she realises she's breaking in more ways than she knows and she hates it and she hates how weak it makes her feel.

She's a survivor. She has _always survived._ She's a born fighter, with bruises and pain littering herself, and she cannot be weak because the crown of her family's expectations rests so heavy on her head she fears her neck will snap.

But most of all, Pansy _knows_ she can't be gay.

Even if she wants to.

And she thinks she is, as tears begin to fall as Lavender brushes her lips against the girls cheek, catching her eyes purposefully from across the room.

Pansy is sure she is gay, but _mainly_ for Lavender.

She's frustrated and angry, but not at Lavender, but at herself. She should have said something, she should have _done_ something, but she was afraid. And Pansy realises she's been afraid for so long now she's not sure if she's afraid of herself or other people, and it's scary, and horrible. She wants everything to stop, pause or just silence itself for a second so she could process everything. If she stays, she's sure she'll go mad; if she runs, she'll lose her.

Even if Pansy never had her to begin with.

Pansy is sure she's gay.

Pansy is sure she has _always_ been gay.

* * *

Pansy doesn't know why it happens to be a garden Lavender wants to meet her in.

The place, ironically, is covered in flowers—specifically lavender. She tries not to roll her eyes at the cliche, but she does as she walks around the path, a smile itching to escape as she catches small hints of the smell as she does. There are others, of course, but the hue and scent of the lavender is all Pansy needed to focus on—as though this is the world's confirmation for how she feels.

Lavender shows up eventually, and as soon as she does, the nerves crawling up Pansy's arms grows intensely and she feels like a _fucking_ idiot. This doesn't _need_ to be romantic, but a part of her—deep down inside—wants it to be. Romance has _never_ been Pansy's forte, but then she has never found a person—other than her childhood best friend—that she _had_ feelings for, until she didn't.

Everything before this, and after Draco, is sexual. But she knows that isn't healthy and that it never was. Draco knew what happened, he comforted Pansy, he came and held her hand at therapy, but they were never romantic. They were everything to one another, but they were never romantic, never in love, never anything more than what the other person needed.

This is different than _anything_ Pansy has ever felt. There are no words, just rushes, just feelings that she can't stifle or control. There is no banishing of thoughts, no hiding the blushes and awkward body language. Pansy loses her cool with Lavender, and it scares her more than anything else.

"You look pale, and that is saying something."

Pansy lets out a chuckle before coughing it away, realising quickly—but not quick enough—how ridiculous she sounds.

"I have something to tell you," Pansy says hurriedly.

Lavender folds her arms, because of course she does, and the crop top that _just_ covers her bra seems to move freely with her arms as her breasts squash closer together.

Pansy wonders if the girl is _trying_ to kill her because it sure feels like she is.

"Fuck…" Pansy hisses, shaking her head as she looks down, her black boot kicking the grass. "Look, okay. I will just, you know, come out with it."

" _Okay_?"

Pansy takes a deep sigh, lifting her eyes before the rest of her face, and the stare, the honest to _God_ doll-like expression makes her heart skip a beat. "Lavender, I think…"

"You think what, _Pans_?"

Pansy shakes her head, wanting to swallow, wanting to take back the two words she has already spoken. But she doesn't. She can't. She won't. _Pans. Pans, Pans, fucking Pans._ She wonders why Lavender's voice saying a nickname she hates, sounds like music. It has hit her ears just right, and it doesn't make her skin crawl.

"Whatever it is, I've got you," Lavender adds, her perfectly plucked brow arching reassuringly.

Then Pansy notices Lavender's bright purple nails standing out against her exposing stomach as her hands place themselves on her hips. Her arms are much darker than her stomach, the sun having danced it's way all over her skin, and Pansy knows she can't deny how much she wants to see her tan marks, to find and uncover all the lines hidden from everyone else.

Pansy wants to skate her lips over Lavender's, to taste the gloss that is always applied too easily. She wants to trace the pads of her fingers up her thighs, and needs to know what it feels like to touch a female between their lace. But most of all, Pansy wants to do it all _only_ with Lavender.

"I fancy you. Alright?"

Silence. Deathly silence. Not even the wind brushing through the trees and not a single bird chirping.

"Just _fuck_ it, alright? Forget it," Pansy adds, scrunching her nose and clenching her fists. "I'm so fucking stupid. I shouldn't have said anything and just kept it to myself because I sound like an emotional fucking _Granger_ or something."

Embarrassment rains down on her, prickling at her bones, and turning her pasty, non-sun-kissed skin a deep red that only looks good when its silky.

Lavender steps closer, the lawn still between them, and even if they are the only ones here, Pansy still feels as though a thousand pairs of eyes were on her.

"No."

Pansy glares menacingly, hoping to pierce the confident bubble _she_ has dared to create. "No? I think you misheard me—"

Lavender removes her satchel from her shoulder, letting it drop to the grass as she walks closer, crunching the life that had grown up from the soil back down.

"I didn't—"

She licks her lips, the pink tip sweeping left to right, right to left.

"—because I wasn't giving you a choice, and–and why are you walking closer, don't come closer, Brown, I'm _pissed_!" Pansy snaps.

Lavender does not halt, and even if she was going to attempt too, Pansy still wants her to continue towards her. Because Pansy wants her to run at her, giving her a chance to catch her—to show Lavender she can and _will_ be caught, at least by her. But instead, Pansy begins to close the gap guardedly, the two of them walking closer and closer, her heart thumping so loud it's all she hears, until…

_Silence._

It's a rush as Pansy grips Lavender's waist and their lips crash together like a wave on the beach. Hands grasping at fabric, at skin, at hair, and they erupt into fire as their bodies melt together. There is no space between them, and even as Lavender sweeps her tongue over Pansy's lips and allows her entrance, Pansy doesn't feel uncomfortable, not like she has always thought she would. It feels right, _perfect_ almost. And it is only made better by the taste of coconut hitting Pansy—the taste of Lavender's lip gloss—and the feel of Lavender's hand against her cheek.

"I think about you when I touch myself," Lavender whispers close to Pansy's ear, before stepping back with a knowing smirk.

For a moment, only the trees blowing in the wind can be heard, and Pansy is sure— _no, adamant_ that she has _not_ just said that. But she knows Lavender has. And she knows Lavender means it.

"I have class, so, see you later. You should take the time to think about whether you want this or not," Lavender says, walking backwards with her curls blowing in the breeze. "I only want a girl who isn't afraid to love me, Pans. I don't do _secrets_ and lies."

Pansy nods—although not _fucking_ sure why, and realises, only when she is alone that the statement isn't a question. Lavender hasn't asked, she has told, and the realisation forces Pansy back down on a bench, anchoring and making her live in this odd moment where she has told a _girl_ she likes them, and was just told she'd be seeing someone later. Especially when Pansy has not been told to do anything, ever.

* * *

Lavender is waiting when Pansy gets back from class.

They're… experimenting. It's not dating and it's not seeing one another, but they kiss and they share a bed and for now Pansy can deal with it because it's behind closed doors. She's afraid of anything outside their room—outside their safety net.

She knows there are things they need to discuss, she feels it prickling the air, it's vibrating almost. But Pansy isn't sure if she's brave enough, and she considers backing off, stepping backwards and running in any direction other than the direction Lavender is in.

There's a look on her face, one tinged with regret, and it hurts, it fucking _hurts_ , and Pansy isn't sure she can take rejection from her sober. She isn't sure she'd be allowed to drink, especially when beside her are the empty bottles of vodka and the two Pansy has yet to drink, and there's concern written over Lavender's face, and she recognises it, but it doesn't register, like it didn't before.

"You don't know everything."

Pansy knows it's not a good place to start, but it's all she can think of as she closes their shared door and finds herself doing the same thing she did when she had been at college. Denying she was struggling.

"Funny enough, I suspected as much," Lavender replies, nothing to her tone, and Pansy doesn't know what to think.

Her mouth opens, she's ready to speak and she is ready to share, but everything holds tightly around her vocal chords and she doesn't think Lavender will look at her the same. Pansy needs Lavender, she doesn't need Lavender to look at her like all people do when they realise what a pair of hands and a threat has done to her.

She freezes. She's panicking, and she has broken all over again. She needs vodka, it's her friend and her foe, but she doesn't care, the taste is what she needs, it builds walls and blocks memories.

"Pans?"

Her eyes, shocking green, meet Lavender's warm brown ones and she wants to curl into them, live in the softness they are forever and a bit, because nothing can touch her there, nothing can touch her or hurt her if Lavender is here.

Pansy opens her mouth again, and this time words fall out. She talks about Daphne, and how Pansy kissed her because it felt right, but it wasn't, it was all wrong. She talks about how her chest had fluttered, but then tightened when their lips glossed over one another, and Pansy assumed she was right about how she felt about girls, but when Daphne pulled back, and the flash of the camera lit the room, she isn't sure anymore, and when Daphne shouts, Pansy is the opposite of sure completely.

Her words continue, spraying about rejection and that no one loves her, and her father tries to push her on to the laps of his business partners and her mother hates her. Pansy talks about Draco and how he's left for a new life, and she hates that he didn't ask her to go with him. The walls come tumbling down, and the tears begin to fall because Pansy isn't strong like she's pretended to be, and it hurts, it hurts to be so fake all the time.

She expects Lavender to interrupt, to tell her she's loved, but instead, she hears a soft, "It's okay," as Lavender's eyes fill with sorrow.

But Pansy doesn't stop, she tells her how she was isolated from everyone at school, how no one likes her, how college had her considering vanishing abroad somewhere and drinking away her days. She talks about therapy, about how she always had Draco, until she didn't, and as the weight slowly falls from her shoulders, Pansy realises one more thing she hasn't voiced until now.

She thinks she could love Lavender truly and completely.

She trusts Lavender, which is scary by itself.

And as their lips come together, fiery and dramatic, their hands wrapping around one another's, they both sink to their knees.

They are clutching their pain entirely together, sharing it for the first time.

She waits for things to change, for the two of them to begin to show the signs of change. But they don't, instead, Lavender opens up. Pansy listens, for the first time in years, to how Lavender got those scars, to the real story, the one where she was in a car crash as a drunk Fenrir Greyback, a friend of Draco's, had been driving her home. She says he was friendly to her, others weren't. Lavender understands what it is like to be an outsider, she has been since she knew who she was, and Fenrir has been the same, judged and cast-aside, but he has always been kind to her.

Until he left her, bleeding in the car that left her with scars. He ran, rushing to protect himself, as she cried alone thinking she was about to die.

Pansy clutches her even tighter, her shaky hand brushing Lavender's cheek, and she says the same thing she's always wanted to hear more than anything.

"I think you're beautiful, Lavender," Pansy says with so much truth it shatters all the brokenness into nothing. "You always have been."

The air changes, that much Pansy knows, but it doesn't frighten her as she expects it to, instead she relaxes, for the first time in forever. Her heart slows, her skin cools, and everything inside her seems to take a huge sigh of relief, because Pansy is here, with someone she trusts more than herself.

"You need to be sure, Pans," Lavender whispers, tracing the strap of Pansy's bra. "It's what I need, I need you to be sure… about us."

Pansy is sure, and she opens her mouth to say as much but all the words halt as a smile passes over her lips. She can be brighter with Lavender, more of who she's meant to be without really knowing any difference. And while she usually wants nothing more than to run, Pansy doesn't this time, she wants to stay, here, forever. She's sure she'd give everything to Lavender if she asked, but she hopes she wouldn't; Pansy is more than things, and she knows with Lavender, someone who sees that, she can truly believe it.

She would give her shelter, protect her from the rain and not allow her beautiful curls to frizz out uncontrollably. Pansy would unselfishly give her the only umbrella, standing out in the rain, even though she hates being wet. Pansy could love her, _really_ love her.

"I'm sure," Pansy replies softly, much softer than she's ever spoken before.

That frightens her.

Almost terrifies her.

But she doesn't take it back, and that's when things change because Lavender is on her knees, her chest rising and falling.

And everything happens in a flash. Their clothes melt from their bodies, and their lips trace neck and chest bones before moving back to the other's mouths. Pansy definitely realising when Lavender is clutching onto the back of Pansy's thighs as she circles her tongue against the skin above Pansy's black knee-high socks that this is what she wants.

She wants Lavender and hates how long it's taken her to get here, especially when she loves sex and Pansy supposes she could love Lavender because Lavender doesn't try to fix her, even when she knows she's broken, and somehow Lavender doesn't care about any of it.

Pansy fails to understand why, but she's not one to question it, not recently anyway, especially when she knows she's pushing her luck.

Because, well, Lavender is out of her league.

Lavender who is funny, and smart, sexy. Lavender who is in control of herself, and knows it all the time. Lavender has no crown upon her head, but Pansy wants to give her one, knight her in something, whether it be in feminism or just being someone who doesn't give a shit what others think. Pansy wishes she was a little bit like Lavender; wonders if liking pink would make her softer or kinder like Lavender. She isn't too hard, even when life is hard, or too soft, when her smile is bright, but Lavender is somewhere delightfully in the middle that throws Pansy off balance, creates confusion that leaves her mystified.

Pansy only knows how to be hard and sharp, like glass but less resilient. Pansy knows she is someone who will shatter, she does it so often some of the cracks never seem to heal. Lavender doesn't appear to care though, not when they are only in their underwear, lips swollen and hearts pounding.

Pansy hasn't _expected any of this._ She doesn't expect the taste of berries and positivity to be so wonderful or the way a soft pair of lips covered in gloss could cling perfectly to hers.

Lavender isn't soft in how she kisses when they are in their underwear—not like Lavender has been—but Pansy likes the element of surprise. It's a noticeable hunger in the way Lavender tugs and nips at hers, clutching her neck and forcing their mouths together, blinding Pansy and allowing her to forget a time when their lips aren't together.

That's when Pansy has moved her hands. One on Lavender's hip, bruisingly holding it as the other snakes into the thick curls she loses herself in entirely. And then they're groaning, moaning like they've both been starved as they crumble together down onto the carpet, as her skin burns from its roughness as they gasp and clutch, pinch and yank as they battle for dominance—although Pansy lets her win _almost_ immediately.

She expects to pull away, nerves to flurry through her when Lavender's fingers brush under the lace of Pansy's underwear, just beside her thigh. She is sure Lavender says her name, but it sounds too innocent and her focus is on not panicking because this is Lavender, or not wanting to moan too loudly because _this is Lavender,_ doing this to her.

Pansy doesn't have a chance to think, she feels Lavender's fingertips inside of her, teasingly slow as they become slick, and Lavender presses open mouth kisses so delicate it feels contradictory for what she is doing between her thighs. Pansy is holding on, clutching bed sheets around her fingers and Pansy is sure she can hold on, she can take some control back, until she feels the weight of the bed increase and she opens one heavy-lidded eye at a time to see Lavender between her thighs, on her knees, against the floor.

She is sure she moans more guttural than she ever has as Lavender circles her clit. Pansy is sure her cheeks are flaming red as Lavender traces each letter of her name against her, as her fingers curl and gain speed, hitting that spot some men need a navigation system to find. But most of all, Pansy is sure she's found her match as she is thoroughly fucked by Lavender's fingers—and her lone-survivor trait crumbles away as she arches her back, seeing the emptiness she has allowed to live inside of her as Lavender forces her to see stars and spots, light and dark all at once. And it's beautiful, and it's brilliant.

"I'm yours," Pansy whimpers, and her mouth is open, her fringe sticking to her forehead. But it's all she can think. _I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours._

It's never felt like this.

 _This_ has never been this intimate.

"I do this for you, Pans," Lavender coos, blowing cool air against her and Pansy shudders before everything becomes frantic.

She knows she's going to come and it's going to be huge, and Pansy is sure she's left the bed, arched so much from the sheets that she's down between the ceiling and the ground, but not at all sure how. Then her orgasm hits, calming every muscle and drowning it in a pleasure she never expects or experiences before in her entire sexual history.

She's sure she's vibrating.

And as she opens her eyes, she sees Lavender standing up with her head tilted to the side as she places one leg either side of Pansy's hips. Guilt and shame begin to rise, but Lavender banishes it away with a stare.

"Fuck you are actually beautiful, Parkinson. And I mean that, Pansy."

She has been told that often. By her father's friends who know she has become of age; the women in the shops who want to dress her for an event Pansy doesn't care to attend. The men who wish to buy her drinks, hoping to feel what it's like to have a million pounds bouncing on them.

She smiles, genuinely and all for Lavender. An innocence blossoms through her body.

And with Lavender, it is all imperfect but honest, and Pansy believes she is telling the truth before she really has a chance to process.

" _I_ think you're beautiful," Lavender corrects. "You're beautiful, and mine."

Pansy doesn't reply with words, she wraps her fingers around Lavender's neck, noticing the difference in their skin as it stands out against the other, and brings her lips to hers, pushing every thought—shameful or not—into that kiss.

* * *

She expects things to go south quickly, that's what usually happens in Pansy's life.

It doesn't.

They hold hands between classes, and sometimes Pansy finds Lavender outside of her class waiting for her. At first, she finds it annoying how attentive Lavender is. The flowers and chocolates, but when Lavender gets sucked into studying for her exam, Pansy suddenly misses it. Pansy has never missed anything, but she misses everything to do with Lavender, and she knows she has to try.

Pansy has never tried, not for anyone.

It starts small, of course, like Pansy choosing to wear a pink t-shirt to class with a pair of light blue jeans, two things she never owned before dating Lavender. Then, she kisses Lavender in public, in _real_ public, and she doesn't care when people catcall or make kissing noises. If anything, Pansy wishes she had done less of it when she was at school, realising how annoying it was.

Pansy orders food one night when Lavender has a late class, and she tries to light the candles in the room but the scent makes her feel sick, and by the time Lavender returns the food is cold. But it's the thought that counts, well, that's what Lavender says as she thanks her in her own special way.

She appreciates their special way of gratitude, it's toe-curling and fills her with calmness.

They share things after, wrapped in one another's limbs as Lavender ignores Pansy's after-sex smoke and Pansy ignores the way Lavender curls her hair around her finger. They just listen, somewhat oblivious to the other's bad habits. They have a lot between them; they're both so messy and with so much pain, it almost makes it seem like nothing when they're together. The load is shared, and the memories don't appear as much as they do when they're alone.

Pansy tells Lavender that one night, it's in a shouting voice and her eyes are narrowed. Because yes, she has trouble admitting nice things without shouting them, and she has trouble admitting how she feels at all, but Lavender tries to make it easier. She doesn't push or accept, and it's why Pansy's first _I love you_ , comes out in the middle of an argument.

An argument that ceases the moment the words hit the air.

Not because Lavender is shocked or taken back, but because she's relieved.

Lavender has never darted across a room quicker, Pansy is sure of it, but when their bodies connect and Lavender's knees are around Pansy's waist, she has no other choice than to cling to the woman, bringing her closer.

Because Pansy wants her forever, and it doesn't scare her as much as it once did.

Not as much as being without Lavender anyway.

"I changed my status on Facebook," Pansy says as Lavender tenses. "You just need to accept your side for it to appear."

Lavender cries as she rummages for her phone, and Pansy cries too, not because it hurts, but because it's _right_. She doesn't care about rules of society or what her parents will think, Pansy is in love, and it feels right, and perfect and beautiful.

Pansy chooses not to have a label, except in a relationship.

That relationship is with a girl, and that girl is Lavender Brown, and Pansy hopes it lasts forever.

* * *

 

oOo

**Author's Note:**

> Find Me On Tumblr: [josiegrae](https://josiegrae.tumblr.com)


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